Of Texts and Sherlock's Coat
by TYRider
Summary: Yet another collab text fic! :D These are just too much fun! This is John's POV and Sherley Holmes has written Sherlock's POV so be sure to check that out! Reading order doesn't matter. Summary: Sherlock's coat is missing and he suspects John. Hilarity and heartwarming friendship feels ensue. Not slash, no shipping here. Friendship/humor/hurt&comfort-ish. Enjoy and please review!


**A/N: This was a ton of fun to write and I hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to check out Sherley Holmes' side of it too! Reviews are wonderful!**

John's phone buzzed. He decided it really was time to find a proper text alert tone. Idly, he opened the text.

_John, what have you done with my coat? - SH_

Sherlock sounded annoyed. John bit back a giggle. It took Sherlock twenty-four hours to notice. _He's getting slow._ John thought wryly. He typed a quick reply and went back to shopping.

_Hmm? Your coat? Nothing. Why do you ask? ~JW_

Might as well play dumb as long as possible.

_Becuase it's missing, and no one but you touches my things, now what have you done with it? - SH_

Impatient, insistent. Sherlock had passed from passively annoyed to genuinely bothered. John giggled again. Sometimes pulling one over on the Great Consulting Detective could be fun. This was one of those times. John grabbed a pint of milk and stuck it the basket before replying.

_What makes you think I would touch your precious coat? ~JW_

It wasn't long before he had his indignant reply.

_The fact that it isn't where I left it. - SH_

John wasn't ready to give up his surprise just yet though.

_Still don't see where I fit into this. Have you asked Mrs. H? ~JW_

_Mrs. H hasn't touched by clothes since she found the Intravenous blood bag in my pocket. Where is it? - SH_

_So, that's what he did to scare of Mrs. Hudson._ John thought. He knew his next reply would aggravate Sherlock, but he decided it was more important to at least attempt to deflect than it was to make Sherlock happy.

_Is that why she won't go near the laundry? She probably thinks you're a vampire. ... Are you? ~JW_

John stopped to check his phone. The next text had John laughing. Out loud. In the middle of a very crowded Tesco.

_I'm not a sodding vampire. Where. Is. My. Coat? - SH_

Still laughing, John replied.

_Language, Lock. You're coat? Well, it's not in the flat if that's what you were wondering. ~JW_

Sherlock's next message was all anger thinly veiled behind feigned calm. The detective was seething. John didn't particularly enjoy making Sherlock mad, but today he had to make him mad in order to make him happy.

_Give it back, my dear Watson, or you will regret it. - SH_

If John were a lesser man he might've been afraid. If John were a lesser man he wouldn't have Sherlock Holmes for a flatmate. He replied with a smile.

_Ha. You wish. I was in the Army, remember? I killed people. Not much you could do to make me regret. Besides, I haven't got your bloody coat. ~JW_

The answer was quick and simple and devoid of any further threats. _Good._ Thought John smugly.

_Then where is it? - SH_

John debated with himself for a while. Just what shade of irritating and degree of mean did he want to be? He settled on a nice, burnt orange shade of sarcasm.

_Not in the flat. Losing the deductive touch, eh, Sherlock? ~JW_

There was a longer pause between texts and John managed to make it to the jam selection before his phone buzzed again.

_Not enough data, John. I can't make bricks without clay. - SH_

John smiled. He could give him a little clay.

_Fine. I'll throw you a bone. It's in London. ~JW_

John could practically hear the sarcasm in the next message.

_Oh, that makes it so much easier. Are you going to make me guess? - SH_

He pecked out a longish reply and hit send. Might as well give Sherlock something to do while he waited. Heavens knows he didn't like to be bored.

_You can if you want or you could just wait for me to explain later like a normal person. No, actually, scratch that. Guess. ~JW_

The next response exuded confident authority.

_...no. Just tell me. - SH_

John hated authority and orders. Even in the Army. Why else do you think he was promoted to Captain? He was a leader and he didn't take kindly to be bossed about by just anyone.

_Sorry, I can't do that. Well, I could, but I wont. Where's the fun in that? It'd ruin the surprise, don't you think? So, yeah, basically guess or do without. ~JW_

Sherlock's next message had John fuming.

_You're not wearing it, are you? It's not meant for someone your... size. - SH_

_That infuriating… insulting… argh! _John thought angrily. He weighed his options, high road against low road. Low road won. Easily. He sent his reply with a wicked grin.

_You sure you want to be insulting the man holding your precious coat hostage? Just remember: I have a gun and a box of matches and a full bladder... anything could happen. ~JW_

Sherlock responded with lightning speed.

_Don't be childish, John! That coat is very expensive. It also has... sentimental value. - SH_

John barked out a laugh and sent his reply, setting the record straight.

_It does not you filthy liar. You bought yourself that coat with Mycroft's card. ~JW_

His phone buzzed wildly. He had two new messages. He stopped dead in his tracks on the sidewalk. John's blood ran cold and he released an animalistic growl when he read the messages.

_Fine. Just give it back or I'll cut snowflake patterns into all your sweaters. - SH_

_All of them, John. - SH_

This was war.

_You wouldn't dare. ~JW_

New message. John sighed, defeated.

_Every last one. - SH_

John fired off two quick replies and hurried his gait. He had one stop on the way home to Baker Street.

_You would, wouldn't you? You know, you can be an awful git sometimes. I'll explain when I get home. ~JW_

_Don't touch the jumpers before I get home or I swear I will move out. ~JW_

His phone alerted him to the new text just as he stepped into the shop.

_Bring my coat, and your jumpers will remain unharmed. - SH_

_Fair enough._ He thought. _Can't wait to see his face._

_The coat and I will be home in thirty minutes. ~JW_

Half an hour later one heavily burdened John Watson made his way up to the flat. He set the shopping in the kitchen and marched into the living room bearing a coat-shaped bundle. He found Sherlock flopped bonelessly upon the couch in his "thinking pose".

"Here." He said roughly, tossing the package to Sherlock.

John could see Sherlock preparing some sarcastic remark as he opened the package, but after looking inside all he said was, "What—? Oh." John could practically hear the cogs turning in Sherlock's mind as he figured it out. "You had it cleaned. Why?" He looked genuinely confused. John flashed a small smile.

Sherlock was so brilliant about most things, but the finer points of friendship still seemed to escape him.

"Cleaned and repaired, yeah. I noticed it was getting pretty raggedy after the last couple of weeks." John answered, recalling the spilled acid on the sleeve, the bullet hole in the back, the tear in the pocked and the bloodstain on the collar. He purposefully didn't say why.

"You didn't answer the question," Sherlock said, frowning as he removed the coat from the bag and inspected it. John watched his face intently, hoping he was happy with his surprise. All John could clearly make out in his features was lingering confusion. "Why?" He repeated.

How do you explain friendship and caring to someone who doesn't already know? John shifted awkwardly before making eye contact again. He held up his hands briefly as if reaching for the words before dropping them back to his sides and shrugging. "Because we're friends." He smiled, unable to think of a better explanation.

John continued to watch Sherlock's face and saw the mask slip a bit, revealing confusion and then a look of dawning understanding. Then, Sherlock smiled. "That was... very kind... of you." he said haltingly. He paused before adding, "I'll make you some tea!"

John smiled brighter because this time, Sherlock _did_ understand. Then he pulled a face and rushed to beat Sherlock to the kitchen. "Thanks, that's really lovely of you and all, but…" he paused trying to be delicate. "I think I'd better make the tea." He smiled again, giggling at the memory of the last time Sherlock made tea—John was determined that it would be the _last time_ Sherlock ever made tea for him. "You're rubbish at it. Why don't you grab the biscuits from the cupboard and turn on Doctor Who?"


End file.
